


Make me call your name

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Time, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Roleplay, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: 5 times Brienne takes what she wants and doesn’t apologise.Featuring: Lannisters paying their debts; Wildling!Brienne; Modern AU (roleplaying); an encounter in the dungeons of Riverrun, and my idea of post-season 7 Winterfell canon.(Essentially, it's about Brienne taking Jaime to bed.)





	Make me call your name

**Author's Note:**

> Um. So, I wrote some smutlets. Please enjoy! The title is from "Throw your arms around me" by Hunters and Collectors.

**1\. Lannisters pay their debts**

**

“You saved my life,” he says when they return to King’s Landing. “What do you ask in return?”

She thinks of Sansa Stark. She thinks of the war. She thinks of Tarth. 

But in the end, she thinks only of herself. 

** 

Brienne’s first brush with true desire comes in the drifting steam and hot water of the baths at Harrenhal. The slow, drugging heat of the water enveloping her, the shadowed, intimate vulnerability of being alone, naked with such a man and listening to his darkest secrets – 

Even now, long days later, the memory sends a thrill down her spine and causes her blood to quicken. 

** 

He stares at her like a cat might watch a particularly interesting mouse, slow, cruel interest dawning in his eyes. 

“Of all the things you could have asked for,” he says, “this is what you want?”

She swallows, lifts her chin and nods, determined. 

**

The first time Jaime Lannister lies with her, it’s to repay a debt. It’s not gentle, but Brienne doesn’t want gentle touches and chaste kisses; it’s sweat-slick and physical and unbearably intimate. 

The second time, it’s because they both want it.

** 

**2\. Wildling!Brienne**

**

The great hall of Winterfell is filled with newcomers. A southron army has arrived, all red cloaks and lion banners, to join the wildlings and the Stark loyalists and the Dragon Queen’s armies. 

Brienne smirks at the shivering newcomers. “They’re all so pretty in their armour and their cloaks,” she says. “They’ll need to find some furs before they freeze.” She strokes her fingers proudly over her white snow-bear pelt, thick and soft. She’d hunted and killed it herself, with nothing more than a spear.

Her eyes drift over to the leader of the newcomers, almost as pretty as a woman. “Is that really a man?” she asks. 

Beside her, Tormund hoots with laughter. “Aye,” he says, “yon pretty man is one of the few southron lordlings come to join the fight. They call him the Kingslayer.” 

Brienne considers this. “That sounds like a good name,” she says. 

She watches him with interest. 

**

Later that night, she sits down across from him at the table. He looks up at her, and she’s caught by his beauty: thick blonde hair streaked with grey; cat-green eyes, tiny lines of laughter and experience fanning out from them; a broken nose to add character. 

“Did you really kill a king?” she asks. “I thought you southrons all loved bowing and scraping before your kings.”

He narrows his eyes, weighing her. “He wasn’t a very good king,” he retorts. 

“Even so.” He smells of fresh soap. She wants to put her nose at his throat and behind his ear and breathe him in. She wants to test his strength and feel his hands on her – 

“What happened to your hand?” she asks, genuinely dismayed. 

He smiles thinly and she can feel him freeze up. “Wait,” she says, grasping his left hand before he can get up from his seat and leave. “I’m sorry.”

He sits back down, looks away, and then shrugs, his eyes flicking back to hers as if to pretend indifference. He looks like a great, golden cat, haughty and offended. 

** 

He takes her back to his quarters. The firelight plays over rich wooden furnishings and red and gold hangings, over a fine bed with a real feather mattress and pillows. “You really are a lord,” she says, after an interlude of breathless kissing. Smiling wickedly, she wrestles him down to the bed, straddles him and holds him down with her greater strength. “I’ve heard tell,” she whispers in his ear, “of something called the lord’s kiss.”

**

**3\. Modern AU (roleplaying)**

**

The island of Tarth lies sweltering under the merciless sun, locked in the grip of a days-long heat wave. Desperate for relief, the tourists flock to air-conditioned bars and restaurants, while the locals head down to the beach and the water. Brienne and Jaime had headed out to sea in the early hours of the morning; they have a secret uncharted little island where the breezes are always cool, where they can swim in the shallow waters, picnic on the sand and doze beneath swaying palm trees. 

“Next time it gets this hot,” Jaime says, drowsy, “we should go to my house in Lannisport.”

Jaime has a house in Lannisport, right on the water, commanding a magnificent view of the harbour. He also has a penthouse apartment in King’s Landing. But he lives in a tumbledown shack right on the beach that he rents from Brienne.

_I’ll live in a tumbledown shack if it pleases me,_ he always says, when she asks him what he’s doing on Tarth. 

Brienne has never met anyone quite like Jaime. He’s arrogant and cynical and callous, but has a strange quixotic streak; he’s ridiculously wealthy but doesn’t give a damn about money. 

His hair is too long and he looks like a beach bum, all lazy golden beauty and grace. He’s at least 10 years older than her, and he smiles at her like she is something precious.

** 

As the heat of the day fades into something more bearable, Jaime turns to her, his eyes glinting with laughter, and says, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make the rent this month. Is there anything else you might consider, in payment?”

Every few months, a terrifying woman in a pencil skirt and towering heels – _my accountant from Lanniscorp_ – comes over from the mainland and sorts out Jaime’s tangled finances. He has never yet failed to pay Brienne on time, and if he does default she need only apply to the terrifying Ms Pia. 

Nevertheless, Brienne finds herself intrigued. 

Rising up to her knees and swinging her leg over Jaime’s hips, she settles her weight over his groin and smiles wickedly as his eyes glaze over.

“Mr Lannister,” she says, trying to look severe and intimidating, “you owe me 400 dragons. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist on immediate payment. There are plenty of other people waiting to rent my beachside shack.”

He blinks up at her, trying to look innocent. “Ms Tarth, I assure you that Lannisters always pay our debts. What would you ask of me in payment? Perhaps my father can help.” 

“Your father?” she rears back. Struggling not to laugh, she frowns down at him. “Your father can’t help you now. This is your debt, and you’ll have to work it off yourself, bit by bit.”

His left hand goes to her hip, squeezing and caressing. Humming in definite approval, he leans up to meet her lips, nipping and teasing at her mouth before she grabs him and takes control of the kiss. She moans low in her throat as their tongues meet, chasing the taste of the sweet wine they had drunk with their picnic, and beneath that something dark and uniquely him. He smells of salt water and sunscreen and the remnants of his aftershave, and his skin is warm and smooth over his lithe, muscular strength. 

With a surprising surge of strength, he flips them over so that she tumbles down to her back, following her down and covering her with his body. They wrestle for a bit, laughing, before he disposes of her bikini top and kisses his way down her neck, taking one of her meagre breasts in his palm, suckling at her nipple and causing her to arch in sudden arousal. Her hips rise and fall as he kisses his way down her flat, muscled belly, murmuring approval of her freckles and her abs and her strength in general, then unties her bikini bottom with his teeth – 

“Jaime!” she hisses, flushing, her voice squeaking in shock. He rests his chin on her thigh and looks up at her through his lashes, mock-innocent; he tugs at her hand and puts it in his hair, smiling wickedly. 

“Ms Tarth, I am yours to command,” he says.

And then he goes down on her, licking and sucking and tonguing her until she squirms and thrashes and tugs mercilessly at his hair, squeezing her thighs around him and pulling his mouth hard against her until she comes so hard she forgets her own name. 

Afterwards, languid and boneless, she pats his shoulder and says that he can stay for one more month.

**

**4\. The Dungeons of Riverrun**

**

The dungeons of Riverrun are dark and filthy. Brienne holds the lamp for Lady Catelyn, watches and listens to her exchange with the Kingslayer. He’s pale and weak, his clothes tattered rags and his eyes glazed with drink, but nothing can disguise his golden looks. When the conversation ends badly Lady Catelyn storms out, enraged. Brienne turns to follow her, but a hoarse drawl stops her – 

“Wait,” he says. 

She turns back to him, holding the lantern up so it catches his green eyes. He squints up at her in undisguised, drunken interest.

“Are you really a woman?” he asks, and then, “no, wait, I’m sorry. That was unworthy of me.” 

“What do you want?” she demands impatiently. 

“The question is,” he says, “what do you want? You’re no stern Northwoman, nor even a woman of the Riverlands. No, you’ve come into Catelyn Stark’s service from somewhere else. Which means,” he pauses, “she’s promised you something. Something you want, very badly. If you set me free,” he says, brandishing his chains a little, “perhaps I can offer you as much and more? You know what they say about Lannisters and debts.” 

She considers him. “Can you offer me a chance to kill Stannis Baratheon?”

He blinks. “Is that all? I’m sure that can be arranged.” 

Incensed by his blasé attitude, Brienne forges on recklessly. “And what about a magical sword, an impenetrable suit of armour and a horse that never tires?”

He grins sharply at her, baring his teeth. “If we had a Valyrian steel sword to spare, I’m sure my father would lay it at your feet when you return me. Of course, the usual reward for a knightly rescue is the maiden’s hand in marriage, but that, alas, I cannot grant you – I’ve sworn a sacred vow, you see.”

She glowers at him. “I don’t want your hand in marriage, ser,” she says. 

He laughs. “My father will be so disappointed. Well, what do you want then?”

She steps fully into the cell, puts the lantern down on the floor and locks the door behind her. His eyes widen with very satisfactory surprise as she kneels down, straddling his hips, one hand going to his laces and the other grasping his matted hair, tugging his head back sharply. 

“I want you to shut up,” she hisses into his ear, daring him even now to speak. 

He opens his mouth, testing his luck – she plunges her hand into his breeches and closes it around his cock, and then crushes her mouth to his, silencing him. 

**

**5\. Winterfell (post-canon)**

**

Here in the far, frozen north, with the army of the dead poised to fall on Winterfell at any day, the strictures and conventions of the south seem very far away. She has come so far, seen and done so much, that Septa Roelle’s hissed warnings of dire scandal and ruined reputations have long since faded; what use is her reputation or her virtue when the Long Night is almost upon them, when they are facing the end of all things? 

When Jaime comes to Winterfell, she takes him to her bed. 

She welcomes the weight and warmth of him, the smell of sweat and horse and leather, the scratching of his beard, the heat and intimacy of his body joining with hers as he settles between her thighs and fills her, his gasping breaths mingling with hers as she clutches at him and urges him on. 

The songs only tell of longing glances, sweet kisses and chaste touches. This is sweat-slick and physical and urgent, messy and undignified and overwhelming. She claws and clutches and begs him, lost to her surroundings and everything but him – when the curling, unbearable tension finally snaps, she locks her thighs around him and cries out his name. 

He follows her, not long after, panting and groaning, spilling his seed deep within her as he grinds out her name in turn. 

**

Her name, not Cersei’s.

**

Afterwards, they lie sated and sweating in each other’s arms. Jaime puts his hand on her belly ruefully, apologizing for not pulling out in time. Brienne shakes her head. “What use is caution now?” she asks. 

He smiles as he kisses her, his mouth hot and hungry, and coaxes her up to sit astride him. 

“Again,” he says, looking up at her in frank admiration. 

She puts her hands on him, on his worn golden beauty, and takes what she wants.

**Author's Note:**

> With respect to part 4, I have to acknowledge the influence of the excellent "One More Thing" by downlookingup, which introduced me all unsuspecting to the scorching-hot concept of Catelyn/Jaime/Brienne in the dungeon.


End file.
